


marginalia

by schweet_heart



Series: Merlin Fic [205]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), BAMF Merlin (Merlin), Bathing/Washing, Beards (Facial Hair), Canon Era, Consort Merlin (Merlin), Court Sorcerer Merlin (Merlin), Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, King Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), M/M, Mild Smut, Post-Magic Reveal, Protective Merlin (Merlin), Scruffy Arthur Pendragon, Tenderness, everyone is happy and nothing hurts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:08:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24320107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: Arthur returns home after a long campaign with scruffy hair and a beard, and Merlin has mixed feelings about it. As Arthur settles back into life in Camelot, however, both he and Merlin discover that sometimes change is for the better (and sometimes it can be a lot of fun).Written for Scruffy Pendragon Fest / Merthur Glompfest 2020.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Merlin Fic [205]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/70688
Comments: 103
Kudos: 719
Collections: Merthur Glompfest 2020, Scruffy Pendragon Fest





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cupidty11](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupidty11/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [cupidty11](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupidty11/pseuds/cupidty11) in the [Merthur_Glompfest_2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Merthur_Glompfest_2020) collection. 



> Dear cupidty11,
> 
> I hope you will forgive me for taking some liberties with your prompt – originally, this fic started out as a silly 5+1 fic for Scruffy Pendragon Fest, but I must have had your Glompfest prompt at the back of my mind, because the more I attempted to give it context the more it morphed and grew until finally I was left with this unholy hybrid of both ideas. I hope you enjoy it anyway; I'm sorry it wasn't finished in time for the fest!
> 
> I also wanted to say thank you for the lovely comment you left in your other prompt, about _shall go freely_ – it pretty much made my entire day ❤️
> 
> ~ schweet
> 
> Please do not repost elsewhere or list my fic on Goodreads (or any other similar spaces).

1

Victory over Escetir did not come easily. Arthur had been away from Camelot for several months before King Lot decided he had lost enough men to surrender arms, and it took some weeks longer than that before the negotiations were finalised and hostilities between the two kingdoms ceased. What with one thing and another, it was bordering on half a year before Arthur rode through the castle gates again, the sharp edge of frost in the air reminding him how lucky he had been to resolve the conflict before the snows set in. No doubt that had been a pressing factor in Lot’s negotiations also, assuming he cared enough for his people to think about such things.

“It’s good to see you home, sire,” said George, bowing deeply as he took Arthur’s reins, and beyond him Arthur could see Geoffrey, Gaius, and a host of other familiar faces waiting to greet him. He dismounted, scanning the crowd for one face in particular, but the man he was looking for did not appear to be present—as negligent in this as he was in all his other duties, it seemed, much to Arthur’s disappointment.

“I think you’ll find Merlin in your chambers, sire,” Gaius said knowingly, stepping forward when Arthur reached him. They clasped arms briefly, and then after a few awkward seconds Gaius drew the king into a warm embrace, the way he used to do when Arthur was a boy. “He felt you might want the chance to bathe and change after such a long ride.”

“He’s not wrong,” Arthur admitted, smiling. He’d pushed the men and horses to their limit on the journey home, not wanting to waste another second now that the battle was done. “Will you make my excuses to the council? Tell them I will convene with them tomorrow afternoon, once I’ve had a chance to catch my breath.”

“Of course, Arthur.” Gaius’ eyes twinkled. “Take all the time you need.”

The council would be expecting a full report, Arthur knew, and they were no doubt eager to complain about the state of the castle, the roads, his coffers, and anything else they had come up with over six months of idleness. But one more day would hardly make much of a difference, and Arthur had other matters to attend to at present, other complaints and gripes and protestations that he would much rather hear.

He took the steps to the next floor two at a time, conscious of a pulse of anticipation building inside his chest, his heartbeat picking up an anxious rhythm in spite of his efforts to subdue it. Over all the weeks of waiting, he had imagined this moment; not his triumphant progress through the Lower Town as Camelot’s returning hero, but this: walking through the grey-dark corridors alone, saddlesore and weary, knowing exactly what he would find when he reached his rooms. Or rather, whom.

He pushed open the door to his chambers. There, where he had left it, was his old oak bed, the hangings freshly cleaned and re-hung in preparation for his arrival; there was his desk, his dining table, the familiar worn-smooth stones of the hearth where a welcome fire was blazing. And there, standing with his back to the window, was his manservant, arms folded across his chest, leaning casually against the stonework as he waited for his king.

For an instant, Arthur could only stare at him. He would have liked to blame exhaustion for the way he stopped dead on the threshold to gawk, but that was only Merlin—tall, lanky, gangling Merlin, who seemed to have become somehow taller and ganglier during the time that Arthur had been away.

“And what sort of a welcome do you call this,” Arthur began, but that was all he was able to get out before the door swung shut of its own accord and Merlin was there, pushing him up against it, his mouth hot and urgent against Arthur’s own.

“You’ve been gone _ages_ ,” he said plaintively, in between kisses. “I thought I was going to have to ride out and fetch you.”

“I’d have liked to have seen you try,” said Arthur, amused; Merlin on the warpath tended to be an intimidating sight, even for an army of battle-hardened knights. “Besides. I thought we agreed that I was going to fight my own battles, now that I’m king?”

“That was before I realised it would take you six months to come back from one,” Merlin retorted, nipping at his chin. “ _Six months_ , Arthur.”

Arthur was well aware of how long it had been; that fact was starkly evident in the new hollowness of Merlin’s cheeks, the way his hair had grown long enough to curl slightly at the nape of his neck, brushing the folds of his neckerchief. They had never been parted for so long before, or under such circumstances, and Arthur had not been expecting the difference it would make to his personal comfort—or to Merlin's, either, if his appearance was anything to go by.

“Were you worried?” he asked, reaching around to undo the knot of Merlin’s neckerchief. The material fell unheeded to the floor as he buried his face in the crook of Merlin’s neck, inhaling his familiar scent. “Did you think I’d let a man like _Lot_ get the better of me?”

“No.” That was a lie—he could feel it in the stiffness of Merlin’s back and tightly strung muscles. “I was worried you’d decide to do something stupid, like conquer the length and breadth of Albion before I got to see you again.”

“It’s nice to know you have such faith in my abilities,” Arthur said drily. “But even my ambitions could hardly stretch so far.”

He drew back a little, and was not altogether surprised at the way Merlin’s gaze dropped immediately to his chest, where a small golden coin hung on its woven leather string. Merlin had pressed it on him the day before he left, folding it into his palm and making him swear that he would never take it off, and Arthur had suspected from the beginning that it was more than just a token of affection. It was a perfect circle, for one thing, without the usual imperfections most coins acquired with age, and when it lay against his skin it was always warm to the touch, without ever taking on the normal coolness of metal. The way Merlin relaxed the moment he saw it told him that he had been right to be suspicious.

“See something you like?” he inquired, raising one eyebrow, and Merlin grinned, his eyes crinkling in a way that usually presaged an insolent remark.

“Very much so, sire,” he said, touching the tiny amulet with one finger. “Something quite priceless, in fact. Oh, and you’re all right, too, I guess.”

That was cheeky enough to earn him another kiss, and then another, and Arthur hoisted him up into his arms as Merlin wrapped both legs around his waist, propping them both up against the nearest wall. He had missed this, their bantering back and forth, almost as much as he had missed everything else, and he was determined to make the most of this opportunity to reacquaint himself with Merlin’s mouth—and perhaps with other parts of Merlin’s body, too, while he was about it.

“Your bath will be getting cold, sire,” Merlin murmured, after a while, and Arthur shivered at the warmth of his breath against his neck. “Are you sure you don’t want to wash off some of that dirt, have a nice, relaxing soak while you’ve got the chance?”

He nosed his way up Arthur’s throat as he said it, letting his feet drop back to the floor, and from the way he pressed up against the king it was clear that he had something more than bathing in mind. Arthur indulged him, nudging him back against the wall with his hips and cupping his buttocks, his thumbs finding the bare skin above Merlin’s breeches.

“As long as you intend to join me,” he said, and listened to the way Merlin’s breathing stuttered. “I want you to tell me what you’ve been up to. Catch me up on all your…news.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Merlin closed his eyes for a moment, resting his forehead against Arthur’s, and Arthur could almost _see_ the weight of six months’ anxiety sloughing from his shoulders. “I’m sure we can find something to talk about.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Arthur said, before sweeping him off his feet again and carrying him to the bath.

+

Later, when they were both freshly cleaned and sated—at least for the moment—Merlin knelt between Arthur’s legs and inspected him, his fingers lingering on the bruise still visible along Arthur’s ribcage, and on the nick in his left shoulder that had come from an enemy’s spear.

“That’s new,” he said, his tone carefully neutral.

“It was nothing. Only a scratch.” Arthur caught at his hand and kissed it, not liking the look on Merlin’s face. “These things happen in war, Merlin. I’m fine.”

“I know,” Merlin said, but his troubled expression hadn’t faded. “I just—I wish you’d have let me come with you, that’s all. I don’t like knowing you’re out there getting hurt when I could stop it.”

“I can’t hide behind your skirts forever.” Arthur tipped up Merlin’s chin, pressing a thumb along the divot of his lower lip until his eyelids fluttered. “Besides, it’s hardly an honourable fight if the other man has one hand tied behind his back.”

“Are you saying that I’m dishonourable, my lord?”

“I’m saying that you’re clever—and cunning—and a formidable sorcerer,” Arthur said, punctuating each statement with a kiss and a bite to Merlin’s lips. “But magic isn’t the only way to win a war, and it is better to save such a powerful weapon for when it’s truly needed.”

“Even if using it would keep your men from getting killed?”

“Even then,” Arthur said, and ignored Merlin’s answering sigh.

It was an old argument between them, and one which Arthur had long since resigned himself to never properly winning. Merlin was not a warrior, and therefore could not see why a knight might prefer to stand and die beside his king rather than entrust his future to a force outside of his control. Nor did he seem to realise that, when it came to Camelot, there were some burdens Arthur considered his alone to bear, and for that reason he guarded his sorcerer’s powers jealously, preferring to keep Merlin in reserve in case of magical attack rather than set him loose against an army of mortal men.

He had, however, accepted the gift of Merlin’s protection, if only because he knew how much Merlin would fret over him if he didn’t.

“Tell me what’s been happening while I’ve been away,” he said, changing the subject. “Your last letter mentioned you’d had word from your mother?”

Merlin brightened at this, as Arthur had hoped he would. “Ealdor was spared the worst of the fighting, she says,” he reported, and Arthur exhaled. “They’ve had a general influx of refugees, but the harvest was good, and with extra hands to help they should be set for the winter.”

“That’s good to hear,” Arthur said. “But I think I might send them a few supply wagons too, just in case. Ealdor is under Camelot’s protection now.”

“Yes, I heard.” Merlin’s expression softened, and he cupped Arthur’s cheek. “Thank you. My mother says you saved a lot of lives, out there on the border.”

Arthur turned his head into Merlin’s palm, wishing there were some better way to hide his blush. Hunith’s praise was as dear to him as Merlin’s, and harder to come by. “Yes, well,” he said gruffly. “I couldn’t very well forget about them, could I? I’d never have heard the end of it.”

“Hmm.” Merlin’s smile said he knew Arthur was lying through his teeth, but he wasn’t about to call him on it. “Geoffrey’s been going spare, having to redraw the boundaries every time we had more news. I don’t think he was expecting you to let Lot keep his head, let alone appoint his son as viceroy. And the council is definitely not pleased.”

This was another reason why he’d left Merlin behind, although Merlin himself would be loath to admit it; Arthur could not have left Camelot for so long as he did without knowing that there was someone there he trusted, someone who would be able to manage the day-to-day minutiae of castle life the way Arthur would— _better_ than Arthur would, if he were honest. He’d never had as much patience as he ought to have done for domestic squabbles, and there were times when the intricacies of courtly life bored him. Not so Merlin.

“And what about you?” Arthur asked, studying his lover’s face. “Do you think I ought to have had Lot executed?”

Merlin leaned back against the tub and shrugged his shoulders, slopping some water out over the rim with the gesture. “Keeping him alive’s a risk, and it might come back to bite you,” he said, with customary bluntness. “But on the other hand, you could hardly have expected Eldred to toe the line if you killed his father, and in the long run that would’ve meant more anger and more strife. I think on balance you made the right decision.”

Arthur nodded. That had been his line of thinking, too, but it was always good to hear someone else confirm it. “Eldred will make a fine leader, given time,” he said, stretching his back. “He has more of his mother’s temperament than Lot’s bluster, and certainly more of her good sense; he just needs someone to encourage him to step out from beneath his father’s shadow. With the weight of Camelot’s authority behind him, I think he will do well for our subjects there.”

“Then you should trust your judgment,” Merlin said, extending one leg to tickle Arthur’s balls with his toes. “You can always chop Lot’s head off later, if you feel like it.”

“Idiot,” Arthur said, splashing him. “I doubt Eldred would appreciate it.”

“You never know.” Merlin flashed him an impish grin. “What with all you’ve told me about his father, you might be doing him a favour.”

+

The warmth of the bath lasted longer than it had any right to, especially given that the sky was dark and the room freezing by the time they got out. On any other day, Arthur might have protested at such blatant coddling on the part of his manservant, but the heat felt so good on all his aching muscles that he couldn’t bring himself to complain. Nor did he object when Merlin got out first to dress in front of the fire, taking his time with the drying sheet and allowing Arthur to watch as the golden light played over his naked form. When he was done, Arthur let himself be dried also, ducking his head as Merlin helped him into his winter shift.

“You grew it out,” Merlin said, running his hands through the damp strands of Arthur’s hair. His fingers snagged briefly in a knot, and he tugged them free, then resumed his ministrations more gently, coaxing out the tangles with patient hands. “What, you couldn’t find someone else who was willing to groom it for you?”

“Didn’t really have time for a barber, in the middle of everything,” Arthur admitted, closing his eyes as he leaned into Merlin’s caress. “I suppose I’ll have to get it trimmed, now that I’m back. The council is already up in arms over how much it costs to house and feed an army, never mind that they were the ones who insisted I must defeat Lot in the first place. God forbid I give them something _else_ to complain about.”

He let out a long sigh, already envisioning the mess of politics and diplomatic relations that would be waiting for him in the morning. Sometimes, being king seemed more like an endless struggle against paperwork and bureaucracy than the righteous crusade against injustice he had once envisioned as a boy.

“Come to bed, sire,” Merlin said, tweaking his hair lightly, and when Arthur opened his eyes again he found him smiling. “You look exhausted. The council and their grievances will keep ’til tomorrow.”

“I’m fine,” Arthur said, but he gave the lie to this statement almost immediately when he let out a broad, jaw-cracking yawn. “All right, I suppose I am a bit tired,” he admitted, rubbing at his eyes. “But I was hoping to at least get rid of this beard before I turn in. It’s been a long few months, and I don’t quite feel like myself, looking like this.”

“You don’t look like yourself, either,” Merlin agreed, eyeing him critically. “But it’s a bit late for me to be fetching your shaving kit at this hour—the light’s already gone.”

Arthur scratched at his chin. It itched. “I suppose it'll just have to wait until tomorrow, then.”

“Hmm?” Merlin blinked, lifting his gaze from where it had dropped to follow the motion, before leaning forward to capture Arthur's mouth in a kiss. “Mm. Yes. Tomorrow. I’m sure we can do something about it then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters 2 and 3 will be posted sometime in the next few days. Thanks for reading! :)


	2. Chapter 2

Tomorrow, however, brought its own concerns, and Arthur was too busy dealing with the council to spare a thought for his appearance. As Merlin had informed him, many of his advisors were not at all impressed with his show of mercy towards Lot and his son, and they had become more than usually fractious as a result, occupying Arthur’s time with petitions and remonstrances almost from the moment he woke up. They were aware, of course, that Arthur was their king, and that there was only so much they could do to change his mind; nevertheless, it seemed to him that they were trying to make up for this by peppering him with insults and petty grievances, one after the other, and they became downright obstructive when he tried to discuss his plans for supporting the families of the fallen. It was all Arthur could do not to lose his temper.

“I’d swear they do it on purpose,” he grumbled to Merlin, as the two of them got ready for bed that evening, “except I’m not sure they could agree with one another long enough to come up with such a plan, let alone carry it out so effectively.”

Merlin smiled. “It’s good for you, really,” he said, pulling Arthur close for a kiss. “Think how big-headed you would be if everyone agreed with you all the time.”

Arthur pinched him, and Merlin fell back onto the bed, laughing. “I’ll have you know that I have never been big-headed in my life,” Arthur said with dignity. “There’s always been someone around ready to cut me down to size at the slightest _hint_ of self-importance.”

“Mm, and I wonder who that could be,” Merlin said, sniggering as Arthur shed his breeches. “Sir Geoffrey? Gwaine? Gaius? Your uncle?”

“You know full well who I’m talking about.” Arthur crawled on top of him, pinning his arms down against the mattress. “Irritating fellow. Clumsy, opinionated, about yea high…”

Merlin wriggled against his grip, but on finding that Arthur wasn’t about to let him go he subsided, his cock already hard and wanting against Arthur’s hip. Arthur smirked. A long time ago, when they had first started sharing a bed, he might have hesitated to hold Merlin down like this, all too aware of the damage he could do without intending it. He had since learned, however, that Merlin quite enjoyed being manhandled by him—especially when they were both naked—and he was more than capable of defending himself.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, sire,” Merlin said, tipping his head back to flick a curl out of his eyes. “ _I_ certainly would never _dream_ of puncturing your royal ego.”

“Really.” Arthur raised one eyebrow. Merlin was lying prone beneath him, arms trapped at his sides, which meant there was no one to stop him when he leaned down and took one of Merlin’s nipples into his mouth, sucking on it gently. Merlin inhaled a sharp breath, then let it out again with a startled curse as Arthur’s stubbled cheek brushed against the sensitised flesh.

“Oh—Gods, that feels—”

Arthur did it again, watching with interest as the pale skin of Merlin’s chest flushed a delicate pink and his cock jerked. Merlin’s mouth hung open, all signs of playfulness rapidly subsumed by pleasure, so Arthur took the hint and kept going, pressing scratchy kisses all along Merlin’s chest until he reached the other nipple. This time, he was rewarded by a deep groan as Merlin arched beneath him, thrusting futilely against Arthur’s thigh in search of friction.

It had been a long time since Arthur had had the leisure to take Merlin apart so thoroughly, and even longer since he’d found a method of doing so which was wholly new to both of them. He toyed with each nipple in turn, coaxing them into rosy peaks with his mouth, then applied his lips and beard to Merlin’s chest in a way that made him squirm and shudder by turns, reduced to incoherent begging by Arthur’s teasing. Not even his bellybutton was spared, and Arthur laved it with his tongue, rubbing his furred cheek against Merlin’s stomach until he felt the muscles contract with helpless laughter. “Gods, Arthur, don’t—I’m going to come,” Merlin pleaded, but since Arthur considered that the entire point of the exercise he continued, letting go of Merlin’s wrists to be certain of his object. “Arthur— _Arthur—_ ”

It only took a few strokes before Merlin spilled over, hands in Arthur’s hair, his heels digging into the mattress as he spent his release into Arthur’s palm. It was Arthur’s second-favourite look on him, succeeded only by the way he smiled a few moments later, fucked-out and pliant, and he couldn’t resist kissing him again, returning to his mouth over and over until Merlin’s lassitude lifted, and he closed a hand around Arthur’s cock to bring him off in turn.

+

Merlin was more than usually responsive the following morning, and again the evening after that, rocking them both towards orgasm with an urgency that suggested he had not yet forgiven Arthur for being away so long. Arthur could hardly blame him; they had a lot of lost time to make up for, and he had to admit that he enjoyed the sensation of waking up to Merlin’s fingers carding through his hair, or having Merlin nuzzle at the stubble on his cheeks and come away flushed with beard burn.

Amorous activities aside, however, in other areas of his life his hirsute appearance was becoming something of a nuisance. The beard itched, distracting him during council sessions, and when at length he returned to training with the knights, he found that his hair had grown so long as to make it difficult for him to see what he was doing.

“Having trouble there, Princess?” Gwaine said, grinning as he helped Arthur to his feet for the third time. “I guess some of us just aren’t cut out for the long-haired look.”

“And I guess some of us care more about fashion than practicality,” Arthur sniped back, brushing his hair irritably out of his eyes. He could see Merlin on the other side of the training field, snickering into the boots Arthur had not actually asked him to clean, and shook his head. One day, he would manage to impress upon his Court Sorcerer that it was unseemly for him to sit about polishing footwear and laughing at the king like any common servant, but it appeared that today was not to be that day. “Again.”

They ran through the drills until Arthur was satisfied he was no longer at risk of embarrassing himself; Merlin’s protective charm could only do so much, and he didn’t want to test it against the edge of a broadsword if he didn’t have to. Then he let the others go, and spent some time alone on the training field, unconsciously replaying the previous months’ campaign in his head as he sought to improve his speed, his reflexes, his reaction time. If he had been quicker, smarter, _stronger_ …

Merlin was still sitting there when he was done, several pairs of boots lined up in front of him and gleaming in the last of the afternoon light—more pairs, Arthur realised after a moment, than he could ever remember actually owning.

“Did you get the knights to give you theirs as well?” Arthur inquired, sitting down next to him on the bench. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his sweaty face. “Anyone would think you _enjoyed_ polishing things, Merlin.”

“It helps me think,” Merlin said, not directly answering the question. He was looking at Arthur the way he sometimes did, with eyes that were far too old and weary for such a young man. “Did it help?”

“Did what help?” Arthur asked, feigning ignorance. Merlin gestured to the training field.

“Beating yourself up. Figuring out all the ways that it went wrong.” When Arthur didn’t answer, he said softly, “You can’t save everyone, you know. No one can.”

“Can’t they?” Arthur hadn’t meant to say it, but the words slipped out, and he couldn’t take them back. “I mean—with magic, couldn’t you?” 

“Even magic has its limits.” Merlin looked down at the boot in his hands, and Arthur watched him pick apart the knotted laces, his slender fingers moving restlessly. He waited. Finally, Merlin looked up at him and said, “Why didn’t you take me with you?”

“Merlin…”

“I know what you said before you went.” Merlin looked away, biting down hard on his lower lip, and Arthur’s stomach twisted. That had not been a pleasant conversation. “And I guess I can see why you might feel like using magic is cheating, especially when the other side only has their swords. But does that matter, really, when I could be useful? I just—I _know_ you, and I can see how much it hurts you to watch them suffering. Why not let me make things easier, if only just this once?”

Arthur had asked himself that same question a number of times, especially when he was in the thick of the fighting and had to watch another man fall, and another, men who might have survived if only he’d let Merlin do what he was so clearly willing to do. Was it only prejudice? He had spent many years unravelling his father’s teachings about sorcery, separating the truth from the lies, and he knew that Uther would have been appalled at the thought of letting a sorcerer fight his battles for him. Or was it simply Arthur’s pride—the inability to admit that his skills, his strengths, could be rendered obsolete?

Perhaps it was both of those things, and more besides; he could come up with so many reasons why he didn’t want Merlin within a hundred feet of an actual battlefield, starting and ending with the fact that he couldn’t bear to lose him. In the end, however, there was something more important than any of those things which held him back.

“I’ve been taught how to fight for as long as I can remember,” he said, picking his words carefully. He knew Merlin was listening, although his gaze was focused on some point in the middle distance. “And one thing I’ve learned is that it’s not just about winning the battle, it’s about _how_ you do it, and what it is you’re fighting for. I didn’t go to war with Lot because I wanted to; I did it because it was the right thing to do, to protect Camelot and her people and to save the people of Escetir from exploitation. But if I had been able to take Escetir with magic—if I could have done so without a single drop of blood being shed…what would there be to stop me from doing it again?”

“There’d be me,” Merlin said at once. “I’d stop you.”

“Would you?” Arthur looked at him, tilting his head to one side. “Would you really? If it meant your mother’s village, for example, would be safe from Kanen and his men, or if another village was free from Lot’s depredations; would you stop me then, if you thought the cause was just?”

Merlin was silent, looking down at his hands. Arthur sighed and leaned against him.

“I know you mean well,” he said. “I know you just want to make things easier for me, and to help me keep the people of Camelot safe. And maybe it would even work, for a while. But you know as well as I do that at some point it would stop being about protecting others and start being about protecting the throne, preserving my power, no matter how just and righteous you believed my use of it to be.” He pressed a kiss to the tender spot behind Merlin’s ear—marvellous, magical Merlin, who was meant for far better things than being the blunt instrument of Arthur’s authority. “Some things in life should not be easy.”

They stayed like that for a long time, watching the shadows lengthen across the grass. The boots, in their staggering rows, had become little more than drunken silhouettes by the time Merlin stood up and said,

“Well, chasing around after you definitely isn’t easy, that’s for sure.” He held out a hand to Arthur, whose muscles had gone stiff from sitting so long in the chill, and helped him to his feet as well, smiling a little when Arthur made a show of shaking out his joints. “Come on, then. If you’re not going to let me fight with you in battle, the least you can do is let me take care of you when you’re at home.”

+

It was tempting for Arthur to ask him what, exactly, he was intending to take care _of_ , since Merlin’s attitude to his duties had always been lackadaisical at best, but the answer soon became obvious when Merlin towed him up the stairs towards his chambers. A steaming bathtub was waiting for him beside the fire, along with several vials of what Arthur recognised as bruise balm, Gaius’ infamous tincture for aching muscles, and a few other potions that he couldn’t identify.

“Does this mean you’re finally going to shave my beard?” he asked, as Merlin stripped him efficiently out of his armour and shoved him towards the tub. “I seem to remember you promising to do something about it days ago.”

“I did,” Merlin said, undeterred. “I sent your shaving knife and shears away to be sharpened this morning. But right now, I’m more concerned about the fact that you’re tracking mud all over the floor.”

“That’s entirely Sir Gwaine’s fault,” Arthur said, not altogether inaccurately. When Merlin showed no signs of relenting, however, he sighed and allowed himself to be bundled into the water, leaning obediently forward when his manservant pressed both hands against his shoulders and pushed his head towards his knees. “What exactly are you—hey!”

Merlin tipped another bucketful of water over him, heedless of Arthur’s spluttering, then knelt beside the tub and picked up one of the vials, pouring the contents into his hands.

“Trust me, you’ll thank me when I’m done,” he said, sliding his fingers firmly into Arthur’s wet hair. Arthur wanted to disagree purely on principle, but Merlin had already begun to massage his scalp, the sweet-smelling oil he was using filling the air with a flowery fragrance. Arthur’s eyes fell closed in spite of himself, and he let out a blissful sigh, a faint coppery tang filling his mouth as a wave of heat swept through him. He had forgotten, it seemed, what it felt like to be pampered—and, moreover, what it felt like to let Merlin do the pampering. The spark of Merlin’s magic sank into his skin, unknotting tense muscles and taking away the ache—not entirely physical—that had come from spending so many hours in his armour, and his whole body seemed to have come over soft and pliant in the wake of Merlin’s touch.

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” he mumbled to his knees, once the first shock of pleasure had faded. “Use your magic for me all the time, I mean. I’d have been happy with a simple scrub and some soap.”

“I know.” He could hear the smile in Merlin’s voice as he tipped Arthur’s head back, fingers fisted in his hair. “But I like doing things for you,” he whispered, trailing a finger down Arthur’s neck. Arthur felt a frisson of animal fear at such an intimate gesture, almost immediately dispersed when Merlin kissed his way along the tendons there, pausing every now and then to bite and suck. There would be bruises there by morning, most likely, but it hardly signified; most of Camelot already knew full well that Merlin was his consort in all but name, and a love bite or two wasn’t going to make much difference one way or another. “It’s what my magic’s for.”

“Far be it for me to stop you, then,” Arthur murmured, and gave himself over to Merlin’s capable hands.


	3. Chapter 3

3

By the time the first snows of the season had begun to fall, Arthur’s straggly stubble had developed into a proper beard, or what passed for one with his fair colouring, and his hair reached almost to his shoulders, with only the slight curl at the end keeping it from qualifying as excessively long.

“It seems a shame to get rid of it now,” Merlin observed, running a hand over the sparse bristles and then up into Arthur’s hair. “It’ll keep you warm, now that the weather’s turned. Plus I think it gives you gravitas.”

“I wasn’t aware that that was a quality I lacked,” Arthur said, raising his eyebrows. “Is that why you persist in never taking me seriously?”

“Could be.” Merlin grinned down at him. “Could also be because you’re a prat.”

Arthur rolled his eyes but refrained from passing comment, because Merlin was holding a comb in his hands and there were still tangles to be brushed out. One thing he had come to discover was that his scalp was _sensitive_. “It still feels a bit strange,” he said instead, shifting in his seat. “But then, so do a lot of things these days.”

Returning to castle life had not been as simple as Arthur expected. Camelot had changed while he was away, not so much in any particular essential as in the sense that life had continued on without him, unimpeded by his lengthy absence. It would have been arrogant of him to suppose that time would stop and the seasons cease to turn without his presence, but there was a loss to it all the same—the sense of having missed out on something important and been left scrambling to catch up.

There were other causes for grief, also. Not everyone had survived the battle, and many more had been injured during the fighting, returning home only to die of their wounds or remain confined to their beds, facing uncertain futures. Arthur felt each missing face the more keenly in this familiar setting, and though he had eventually convinced the council to make provision for the bereaved wives and families, there were days when weight of responsibility seemed to fall particularly heavily upon his shoulders, piling up in the corners of his thoughts like snowdrifts and impeding the return to normalcy.

Merlin felt it, too—Arthur knew he did. There were evenings when he came back from the infirmary to stare hollow-eyed into the fire, his face grey with more than just fatigue. Nights when he woke Arthur from a restless sleep to go with him to the bedside of one or the other of his men, to sit with him and hold his hand as he died. In this, as in many things, magic could only go so far, and Merlin often complained that medicine was the most arcane and finicky branch of sorcery.

“Too much guesswork, not enough certainty,” was how he put it, falling exhausted into bed one morning. The sky was already beginning to lighten, and Arthur was up and getting ready for his day—by himself, since Merlin was clearly in no shape to dress him. “I don’t know what I’m _doing_ , and I’m too afraid to try anything new in case I mess it up.”

Arthur stopped at the end of the bed to remove Merlin’s boots, dropping them onto the floor with a dull thud _,_ then found one of the stockinged feet and ran his thumb along the instep. Merlin’s leg twitched, not quite a kick, but he made no other attempt to shake Arthur off.

“No one expects you to be perfect,” Arthur said, massaging the sole of Merlin’s foot. “In fact, I’m fairly sure most people are expecting you to fail miserably, so you’re already surpassing their expectations just by showing up.”

Merlin turned his head to glare at him, his hair sticking up strangely where his face was mashed against the pillows. “Thank you, sire. That’s so encouraging,” he said, deadpan, and Arthur bit back a smile.

“What I’m _saying_ is, you’re doing the best you can. There’s a lot that we don’t know about the human body, and even more that we don’t know about magic, never mind how the two things work together. You can’t save everyone,” he added, parroting Merlin’s own words back at him. “What matters is that you save as many as you can.”

Merlin groaned, hiding his face in the pillows again. “I hate it when you’re right,” he said, his voice muffled. “Although, I guess in this case, _I’m_ the one who’s right, since I was the one who said it first.”

“You keep telling yourself that.” Arthur gave his ankle one last pat before going to retrieve his cloak. “But I expect you’ll recognise my brilliance just as soon as you get some sleep.”

+

It wasn’t all bad news. Everywhere that Arthur looked, he saw the subtle signs of magic creeping back to Camelot—subdued for now, like dormant winter growth, but ready to burst into riotous life as soon as the ground began to thaw.

Before he’d left, he and Merlin had begun to introduce a series of reforms, designed to help those magic-users persecuted under his father’s reign to become a functioning part of Camelot society. Merlin had been particularly excited about the possibility of applying magic to farming, suggesting that judicious use of sorcery might mitigate the effects of blight and inclement weather, and enable them to produce hardier, more fruitful crops.

A week or two after Arthur returned, Merlin duly dragged the king out to survey the rye and wheat fields, which—Arthur had to admit it—did appear to be flourishing more readily than usual.

“We tried it with a small patch first,” Merlin said, pointing to an area of the pasture that was thicketed and overgrown. “But things got a little out of hand. It turns out that this kind of magic can be quite unpredictable, and too much is worse than none at all. We had to experiment a few times before we got it right.”

“I’m glad you managed to stop it before it took over the castle,” Arthur said, noting the way a ruined shepherd’s hut had been all but consumed by the rampant foliage. They were some distance from the lower town out here, but he could well imagine the sort of havoc Merlin’s magic-infused plants could wreak if they got too close to the citadel. “Are you sure that this is safe?”

“Safe as it can be.” Merlin grinned at him. “Don’t worry, Arthur. I made sure to contain it before I started practicing. It wouldn’t be much use if the entire kingdom was overrun with grain.”

“At least no one would go hungry,” Arthur said wryly. “But I appreciate your taking precautions.”

There were changes in the storage rooms, too, with spells to keep out the mice and the damp and to protect the grain from rot. Arthur listened patiently as Merlin explained what he had done, or caused to be done, or was in the process of teaching other sorcerers to do, and experienced again that pervasive sense of unreality as he thought about how different his life was now from the way he had envisioned it in his youth. His father must be rolling in his grave to see what Arthur had done to his kingdom—and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to regret the choices he’d made.

+

A few nights later, Arthur was reading yet another lengthy grain report when Merlin came in, stamping the snow from his boots and shaking it loose from his dark curls. He must have been cold, but even so he shucked his scarf and bypassed the fire entirely, wrapping his arms around Arthur and pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck. Arthur let out a hiss as Merlin’s icy hands slid up under his tunic. “Hello,” he said, batting Merlin away and turning to face him. “Where’ve you been?” 

“Rose hips,” Merlin said briefly. At Arthur’s curious glance, he elaborated; “I’ve been picking them for Gaius. He uses them in a syrup to ward off coughs and colds.”

“Ah.” Arthur took Merlin’s fingers between his own and rubbed them briskly, cupping them in his palms and breathing onto them in an effort to warm him up. As usual, the idiot had forgotten his gloves. “Is this the same syrup he likes to pretend is good for you but which actually tastes like toad water?”

“That’s the one.” Merlin gave him a tired smile, then leaned forward and kissed Arthur again, pressing him up against the edge of his desk until Arthur could barely breathe. When he retreated, Arthur was startled to see that there were tears in his eyes.

“Hey,” he said, pushing his chair back so that he could see Merlin properly. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just—” Merlin closed his eyes and scrubbed his face with one hand, pulling away from Arthur to drop down onto the bed. “We lost another one today. Pneumonia, courtesy of a broken rib.” His mouth tightened. “I just wish there was more I could do for them. I feel so helpless. What if it had been you, lying in that bed? What use am I if I can’t—”

He cut himself off, the muscles of his jaw flexing visibly. He looked very pale, though the tips of his ears and nose were red from being out in the snow. Arthur left his desk and crossed to sit down next to him, close enough that their sides were touching, then tucked his head into the crook of Merlin’s neck, pressing his mouth to the soft warmth there.

“I’m fine,” he reminded Merlin quietly. “Barely a scratch on me, remember? Your little charm worked perfectly.”

“Hardly perfectly.” Merlin let out a bitter laugh. “You still got hurt.”

“Which is only to be expected, given that I was _in the middle of a battle._ ” Arthur pulled away far enough to cuff him gently around the back of the head. “Merlin. I realise that I am one of the best swordsmen in the kingdom, but even I’m not good enough to deflect every blow that comes my way. I know your magic helped me, and I’m grateful.”

Merlin sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I know you are,” he said. “It’s not that. It just doesn’t feel like enough, sometimes. Not when I should be able to protect you all.”

He didn’t say, _if you’d only let me do it_ , and perhaps he didn’t even think it, but Arthur felt guilty for it all the same. He thought back to their conversation on the training field, and his own stubborn conviction that if he could just push himself that little bit more, if he could just be that tiny bit better, there would be no need for anyone else to get hurt. How much more responsible must Merlin feel, with all that power running through his veins and no way to use it?

“Perhaps,” he said slowly, “if there were something else you could do—something more like this…” He touched the coin that still hung around his throat. “Would that be possible?”

Merlin shook his head. “That particular spell needs to be anchored in order to work properly; that’s why I gave you the amulet.” His gaze dropped to Arthur’s shoulder, and he glared at it as if he could still see the scar even through his tunic. “It’s very weak, though. It wasn’t designed to cover more than your chest, let alone the rest of your body. I could make one for every knight in the army, but it still wouldn’t be enough.”

“What if you made the spell part of our armour?” Arthur suggested, unwilling to let the idea go, now that he had thought of it. Sudden vistas of possibility opened up before him: his knights were skilled, yes, and already formidable, but magically reinforced armour would give them an edge over their enemies that would make them difficult to beat. “You could talk to Gwen; she might have some idea how it could be woven into the maille—would that make it strong enough?”

Merlin stared at him. “Actually, I think it might,” he said, with enough surprise in his voice that Arthur wondered whether he ought to be insulted. “It wouldn’t make you invincible, but it would be enough to turn aside a killing blow, perhaps give the wearer time to regroup. And if Gwen could make the weave denser, or reduce the size of the links, then maybe…”

He trailed off, clearly lost in contemplation of the possibilities, and Arthur gave him a few more moments to digest the idea before he prompted, “Well? Are you going to going to put the idea to the council, or should I?”

This time, when Merlin flung his arms around him, Arthur saw it coming.

“Thank you,” Merlin whispered, pressing his lips fiercely against Arthur’s hair. “Arthur—you don’t know what I—if something had happened to you, I don’t think I could have—”

“Shh.” Arthur hushed him with a kiss, and Merlin quieted, capitulating with a soft sound as Arthur pushed him down onto the bed. It wasn’t that he didn’t sympathise, with both the devotion and the devastation in Merlin’s voice, but there were some things that should not be spoken out loud; they were too powerful. “Merlin, I know.”

+

In the end, they agreed that Merlin should be the one to table the proposal at the next council meeting. It was likely that there would be considerable expense involved, both in the forging of the new armour and in the training of Merlin’s protégés, and since he was the one most familiar with the process it made sense that he be the one to field the questions. He spent several days cloistered in the smithy with Gwen, making plans, and a few more days shut up in his sorcerer’s tower doing God knows what with an ancient spellbook—then, finally, he announced that he was ready, and Arthur agreed to convene the council for the following day.

It still came as an odd sort of surprise to watch Merlin standing there, speaking to a group of noblemen as though he were born their equal. It had been a rare enough occurrence before Arthur left for him not to have gotten used to it, and now it struck him anew that Merlin was not only a confident orator, but a clever one. Not, he reflected, that anyone who knew the man ought to have been surprised to learn that he had the gift of the gab, but there was a difference between being able to talk a lot of nonsense about nothing and being able to talk a lot of sense about _something_.

“These men are your friends,” Merlin concluded, leaning forward onto the table as he wrapped up his speech. “Your sons, brothers, countrymen. Will you send them into battle unprotected? They are excellent warriors and fine swordsmen, but even the finest swordsman can be brought down by luck. With this new kind of armour, they stand a better chance of making it back home alive.” He paused, letting the words sink in, and met Arthur’s eyes across the table. “What say you, my lords?”

Even with Merlin’s cleverness, it was not an easy sell. Some of the councilmen were young, many of them current or former knights who had fought alongside Arthur on campaign—they, at least, knew the value of Merlin’s proposal for a fighting man. But there were enough of those left over from Uther’s reign, older lords whose landholdings and contributions to Arthur’s army meant that their opinions had particular weight and they knew it; they were the ones who had not yet accepted the return of magic to Camelot, and so naturally they were the ones who were the hardest to convince.

There were questions about the enchantment. No, Merlin could not bespell the armour to make it impenetrable; such a weight of magic would make the metal far too dangerous to wear. No, the magic did not control the wearer, or their assailant, nor could it be used to; it was a matter of protection only, something to do with the conflict between opposing intentional forces, though Arthur wasn’t entirely too clear on that part. In any case, it didn’t matter _how_ it worked, only _that_ it worked, and after a while he stepped in to demonstrate with the coin that Merlin had given him, making it sound—he hoped—like a deliberate test run of the scheme rather than a spur-of-the-moment keepsake.

In the end, they voted in favour, provided that the first set of armour proved satisfactory. Merlin was given the official go-ahead to begin as soon as possible.

“An excellent idea, sire,” Gaius said, pausing to shake Arthur’s hand after the meeting had adjourned. “If I’m not careful, the two of you might end up putting me out of a job.”

“Not even magic can do that, Gaius,” Arthur said, though he, too, was pleased. “Still, it’s good to know that we can do something to reduce your workload. And Merlin’s, too,” he added, glancing across the room at his Court Sorcerer. Merlin’s face was flushed with their success, and he was talking animatedly to one of the older councilmen, explaining something in what appeared to be great detail. “He deserves the reprieve as much as anyone.” 

“Indeed, he does.” Gaius’ expression softened as he followed Arthur’s gaze. “I confess, sire, I worry sometimes about the hours he keeps. He really ought to get more sleep.”

“Try telling him that,” Arthur said ruefully. He knew—of course he knew—that Merlin had been doing the work of three men for some time now, and without getting half of the recognition he deserved, but every time Arthur tried to get him to relinquish some of his duties he refused. Not that Arthur had tried particularly hard, he had to admit. Promoting another servant in Merlin’s place, apart from offending him, would also mean an end to lazy morning sex and quiet evenings alone together, and Arthur found himself unwilling to give them up.

He also, rather selfishly, enjoyed watching people underestimate Merlin, only to be firmly put in their place when they discovered what he could do.

“What are you smirking about?” Merlin asked, rejoining Arthur again when he left the council chamber. “You look like the cat that got the cream.”

“I was just thinking,” Arthur turned up the staircase that led towards his chambers, bumping Merlin companionably with his hip as the other man fell into step beside him, “that you seem terribly popular, all of a sudden. Is this what I get for being away so long—my Court Sorcerer launching a bloodless coup?”

“Hardly.” Merlin snorted. “You only think that because you weren’t here to see them squabble over everything I said while you were away. I’m quite happy to leave that crown of yours where it is, thanks all the same.”

“Oh, I see how it is. You’ll keep me around to do the dirty work, while you laze about all day and wrap my councillors around your little finger.” Arthur feigned offence. “What were you and Lord Aethelfric talking about, anyway?”

“Poetry,” Merlin said, then grinned at the look on Arthur’s face. “He wanted to know if you’d got the idea from Homer’s _Iliad_ —you know, from Achilles’ armour?—but I had to explain to him that you fell asleep before I could read you that part. I think he was a little disappointed.”

“No doubt he was also shocked to discover a peasant could read,” Arthur said drily. Lord Aethelfric was not known for his enlightened stance on the intelligence of the lower orders. “Did you also remind him that it was your idea to begin with? No—I imagine you didn’t, or you’d still be treating him for apoplexy.”

“Shut up, Arthur,” Merlin said, laughing. “It’s not his fault he doesn’t know what to make of me. Besides,” he added, slanting a sly glance at the king, “I wasn’t the only one he was impressed by. I don’t think I’ve ever heard the council agree on something so quickly.”

“That,” Arthur said, “had nothing to do with me, and everything to do with the way you presented it to them. They quite enjoyed the flattery, you know. You had them eating out of your hand.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Merlin said, but Arthur could tell by the way his ears turned pink that he was pleased.


	4. Chapter 4

4

Winter passed slowly. After the grinding purposefulness of battle, Arthur found himself at something of a loose end; he was as busy as he ever was, running the kingdom, but the sense of immediate urgency was gone, and there were times when he almost longed for something to happen that would break up the monotony of day to day life. 

It didn’t help that Merlin was largely preoccupied with his own project. Arthur didn’t begrudge him his enthusiasm—he knew that it sprang from a genuine desire to help and protect his people, both valuable ends in and of themselves. But it would have been easier to be happy about it if it didn’t also mean additional hours spent away from one another, tending to their own duties in different parts of the castle. 

In the beginning, Arthur did attempt to involve himself in the creation of the armour; since he’d been instrumental in coming up with the idea, he felt he ought to at least offer to help with the practical aspects of making it a reality. The problem was, there wasn’t really much that he could do, and Merlin was inclined to be touchy about having someone peering over his shoulder while he was casting such a complicated enchantment. 

“Honestly, Arthur,” he said, the third time Arthur had come close to burning himself in the forge. “Don’t you have better things to do than sit around and watch me work all day?” 

“No,” Arthur lied, just to see Merlin scowl at him. He grinned. “I like watching you work. God knows it’s been a rare enough sight over the years.” 

“Very funny,” Merlin said, narrowing his eyes. “Just for that, I am officially banishing you to the castle, _my lord_. Go back to counting your coins, or whatever it is you noble folk do all day.”

“I don’t have any coins to count,” Arthur objected. “Between this and the war, you’ve bankrupted me.” But he took the hint, and found other ways to occupy himself while Merlin was busy. It wouldn’t do for their experiment to fail just because he wanted to spend more time with his manservant—especially when said manservant had the nerve to call him a prat. 

  
  


+

  
  


A few nights later, Arthur was still awake when Merlin returned to their chambers, tired and dishevelled and smelling of smoke and ash. He slid beneath the covers with a tired sigh, and Arthur was unable to resist gathering him closer, burying his face in the crook of Merlin’s neck.

“Rough day?”

“Just busy.” Merlin was boneless, heavy against Arthur’s chest. “Metal is finicky, and it doesn’t like my magic very much. Keeps trying to slither out of it when I cast the spell.” 

“Hm.” Arthur wasn’t exactly sure what to say to that; he had never considered that metal might have actual preferences before, but Merlin made it sound like something alive. “See, this is why you should let me help.”

“No.” Merlin let out a soft laugh. “I don’t think that would improve the process. Besides, I can’t think straight with you staring at me.”

At any other time, Arthur might have followed up on such an intriguing statement, but Merlin was already moulding himself to Arthur’s body, fitting himself between Arthur’s thighs, so he pressed a kiss to Merlin’s shoulder instead. “You’re hard to look away from,” he murmured, sliding his hand down to between Merlin’s legs, and Merlin arched against him with an appreciative groan, diverting the conversation into more pleasurable avenues for a time. 

Some hours into the early morning, Arthur felt Merlin stir again, rolling over so that they were face to face. He hadn’t been asleep himself, merely dozing, listening to the sound of Merlin’s breath and thinking the sorts of ridiculous, sentimental things he would have been ashamed to countenance in the light of day. Things like, _I should probably make this official at some point_ and _maybe if we work together, there won’t even_ be _another war, and then—_

“Arthur? Are you awake?” 

“Mm.” Arthur felt his cheeks turning hot, and was exceptionally glad that Merlin couldn’t read his mind. “What is it?” 

“Nothing. I just…”

Arthur waited. The reply was so long in coming that he thought perhaps Merlin had gone back to sleep, until finally he sighed and shifted closer, his hair tickling Arthur’s cheek, and Arthur felt again the sweet pang of affection that thrilled and terrified him all at once. 

“Do you really think it will make a difference, all of this?”

“Of course I do.” Surprised, Arthur pulled back a little so that he could look into Merlin’s face. “Don’t you?”

“I guess. I just…I’ve never done this before. What if I can’t get it to work?”

“Then we’ll find another way.” Arthur ran his fingers through Merlin’s hair, brushing it back from his face, and met his gaze. “This isn’t a test, Merlin. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work.”

“But.” Merlin looked away from him, biting his lower lip. “All that money—and if there’s another war—”

Arthur didn’t want to think about another war.

“We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it,” he said firmly. Fortunately, after his success in Escetir, there were few other kingdoms with the interest or ability to challenge Camelot just now, and no matter how much Merlin doubted himself, Arthur was certain he would find a way to sort things out before they did. “And as for the money, well. Let me worry about that. I can always hire you out as a juggler if things become truly desperate.” 

Merlin laughed, even though it looked as though it was against his better judgment, and Arthur felt him relax against his side. “At last, some recognition for my true talents,” he said, deadpan, and Arthur was forced to smother him with one of their pillows. 

  
  


+

  
  


At last, after several false starts (and one small fire), the first set of enchanted maille was ready for testing. Arthur had fully intended to trial the armour himself, since he couldn’t in good conscience ask any of his men to put their lives at risk when he couldn’t guarantee their safety, but Merlin vetoed that idea by pointing out that none of his knights would he comfortable attacking their king. Since the magic was partly influenced by intention, it probably wouldn’t work as well if they were trying not to hurt him. 

In the end, he chose Sir Bors, who was experienced enough not to baulk at a little blood, and Sir Gideon, who besides being the right size for the armour to begin with had always been eager to impress, and was young enough for ‘let Sir Bors try to hit you’ to seem like an exciting challenge rather than an invitation to stupidity. They wrapped him up in an extra layer of padding, just in case, but Arthur tried not to feel like he’d just chosen a lamb to send to the slaughterhouse. It didn’t help that Gideon looked a little like Merlin, with his curly black hair and wide, innocent eyes. 

“Arthur,” Merlin whispered, curling his fingers into Arthur’s sleeve when the king took his seat beneath the pavilion. He leaned closer so that he wouldn’t be heard, sounding panicked. “What if it doesn’t work? What if someone gets hurt, or worse, what if—”

He didn’t voice the thought aloud, but the look on his face said more than enough. He was very pale and looked faintly green around the edges, and if Arthur were a crueller man he would have said, _this_. _This is why I will never let you set foot on a battlefield_. He knew Merlin could be ruthless, when the occasion called for it, but the rest of the time he was soft-hearted to a fault, a quality Arthur had no intention of corrupting if he could help it. He said, “It will work.” It was easy to sound confident. “I trust you.” 

Merlin let out a strangled sound that might have been a snort, gripping Arthur’s wrist so hard it would probably leave bruises. Arthur forced himself not to wince, patting Merlin’s arm before turning his focus back to the matter at hand. The two knights had squared off against one another at opposite ends of the field, stretching their muscles and warming up in preparation for the fight. Arthur had instructed them to move around a bit first, so that he could judge how much the maille would hamper Gideon’s mobility in battle. Then, when he gave the signal, Sir Bors would attack, and Gideon would counter him a few times before allowing the other knight to get in a proper hit. 

“Aim to injure, not to kill,” Arthur had told Bors privately before the bout. “I don’t want you to do any serious damage if you can help it.”

“Not even a little bit?” Sir Bors asked, faking disappointment, but he sobered up abruptly when he caught Arthur’s eye. “Of course, sire. I’ll do my best.” 

Even so, it was difficult to watch. Arthur had seen men fight before, of course, both for sport and in deadly earnest, but there was always something uniquely horrifying about the fact that he was the one who had ordered them to do it—that, if Merlin’s magic were to fail or rebound or misfire for whatever reason, he might knowingly have ordered them to their deaths. 

“I can’t look,” Merlin muttered, turning away. He hadn’t let go of his death grip on Arthur’s arm, but Arthur found he didn’t really want him to. “Tell me when it’s over.”

“Coward,” Arthur muttered back, though it was half-hearted at best. He couldn't blame Merlin for being nervous when he himself felt much the same.

It was a short fight, so far as these things went. Arthur leaned forward to follow the action, keeping his eyes on Sir Gideon as he blocked, feinted, and parried, moving through some of the more complicated formations that Arthur himself had taught him. He was a good fighter, precise and almost elegant, and while the maille had not been tailored for him specifically, it didn’t have to be; it was loose enough for him to move, fitted enough not to get in his way. Gwen had done her job well.

At last, Arthur caught Sir Bors’ eye and nodded, and the elder knight went in for the kill, turning his blade at the last moment to score a glancing blow along Sir Gideon’s side. Arthur heard the sound of metal scoring metal and winced, reflexively digging his fingernails into Merlin’s arm. On the battlefield, that would not have been a good sound. On the battlefield, that sound would have meant a man down, or at best a soldier who was injured, faltering, in need of help before the enemy had the chance to finish him off. Arthur’s instincts had him scanning Sir Gideon for signs of blood, his free hand moving towards his sword as he saw—

Nothing. The chain mail held, and not only held; it _rippled_ , the links flashing gold with what was more than just a reflection from the sun, and Arthur caught his breath as he realised suddenly what the armour reminded him of. 

_Dragon scales_. 

“Well,” he said after a moment, giving Merlin a nudge to tell him it was safe to look. “At least we know that it works.” 

“Yeah,” Merlin said faintly, staring at the armour with an expression that suggested he hadn’t known it would do that, either. “At least there’s that.” 

  
  


+

  
  


A few more strikes, more aggressive this time, proved that the armour did in fact do its job: Sir Gideon emerged from the field without a scratch, his dark hair tousled and his face split by a broad grin.

“How was it?” Arthur asked him, eyeing the younger man critically. “Not too heavy?” 

Sir Gideon shrugged. He looked just as hale and hearty as he had been when he first stepped foot inside the arena, if slightly out of breath. “Light as air,” he reported, beaming. “I barely even felt it when Sir Bors hit me.”

“You’ll probably have some bruising tomorrow,” Merlin told him, coming up behind Arthur. He handed Sir Gideon a small pot of what Arthur recognised as Gaius’ specially-brewed arnica balm. “This will help, so make sure you apply it liberally. And let me know if there are any after-effects.” 

“Of course.”

The two of them spoke briefly with Sir Bors as well, then Arthur dismissed the rest of the knights who had come to watch and left, Merlin trailing after him. It was late afternoon by now, the sun dipping towards the horizon, which gave Arthur the perfect excuse not to call a council meeting until tomorrow—the councillors hated it when he disturbed their evening meal, and he wanted to take the night for himself, or rather, himself and Merlin, to savour the feeling of a job well done before they were once more embroiled in questions of policy and logistics. 

They had almost made it all the way back to their chambers before Merlin, clearly running out of patience, broke the silence. “Well? What’s the verdict?”

“The verdict?”

“Don’t be a prat.” Merlin prodded him in the ribs, and Arthur grinned. “What did you think of the armour? Are you satisfied?” 

“That’s a loaded question.” He caught Merlin’s hand as the sorcerer made to poke him again, and tugged him closer for a kiss. “As far as the armour is concerned, yes, I think it’ll do. I particularly liked the part where you decided to co-opt my family crest and turn all my knights into dragons by proxy. Very clever, _Dragonlord_.”

“Ass.” Merlin’s eyes crinkled. “You know I didn’t mean to do that.” 

“That only makes it more impressive,” Arthur said solemnly, then danced out of the way when Merlin tried to jab him with his elbow. “Ah ah! It’s too late for that; I already know you like me.”

“Lies and slander,” Merlin retorted, but he didn’t resist when Arthur kissed him again, walking him backwards towards their chambers with flagrant disregard for the two knights standing guard further down the hall. When Arthur let him go, Merlin looked slightly dazed, but he was smiling. “Fine,” he said, like it was a terrible hardship. “I _guess_ you’re not all bad. I mean, the scruffy beard and long hair thing is kind of growing on me.”

“ _Is_ it, indeed,” Arthur said, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “You never said.” 

“You never asked,” Merlin said primly. “Besides, your ego being what it is, I thought discretion might be the better part of valour.”

“I see.” Arthur caught him before he could move away and slid an arm around his waist, rubbing his chin obnoxiously against Merlin’s cheek until he tried to shove him off. “Am I meant to understand that you think I’m…arrogant?” 

“Extremely.” Merlin’s voice was gratifyingly breathless. “One might even go so far as to say insufferable.” 

“Perhaps it’s about time I did something to humble myself, then,” Arthur said. He nudged Merlin inside their bedroom and shut the door, pausing only to bar it before he pushed Merlin up against the wood. “If only so that I can listen to your opinions about my looks without running the risk of over-inflating my ego.” 

He trapped Merlin in place, bracing one arm on either side of him, then slowly slid to his knees, smirking as he heard the other man curse. With one hand, he undid the laces of Merlin’s breeches, letting out a pleased hum at what he found there.

“Look at you,” he murmured, freeing Merlin’s already filling cock from inside his small-clothes. “You really _do_ like my hair like this, don’t you, Merlin?” 

The sound Merlin made was a cross between a groan and a whimper. “I already said I did, you prat! What more do you wan— _ohh_.” 

His hips jerked instinctively as Arthur licked a stripe up his cock, and Arthur caught at his waist to keep him still, rubbing one bristly cheek against the soft, white skin of Merlin’s inner thigh. Merlin shuddered, tendons straining, and Arthur couldn’t help but smile when he let out yet another incomprehensible noise, a combination of lust and pure frustration. It wasn’t often that he could render his manservant completely speechless. 

“What I want,” he said, moving close enough to Merlin’s prick that Merlin must have been able to feel his breath, “is for you to hold very still, while I show you what the penalty is for being so insolent. Do you think you can do that?” 

“Nggh,” said Merlin. His hands had found their way into Arthur’s hair, gripping it tightly, and when Arthur looked up at him he saw that Merlin’s cheeks were flushed, his pupils dilated so wide that his eyes were almost black. He decided to take that as a yes. 

Arthur didn’t exactly have much experience with this sort of thing—between the two of them, Merlin was the one most accustomed to being on his knees—but he applied himself to the project with customary vigour, enjoying the way that Merlin gulped and swore as Arthur swallowed him down. He didn’t manage to remain still for long, of course; but then, Arthur hadn’t really expected him to. As punishment for this failure, he hollowed out his cheeks, coaxing Merlin right to the brink of orgasm before pulling off and wrapping one hand firmly around the base of his cock. Merlin whimpered quietly, but regained control of himself, fingertips gone white where he pressed them against the wood of the door. 

“I hate you,” he panted, the second time Arthur drew back before he could finish. “You’re lucky I don’t turn you bald, like the goblin did with your father.” 

“I should have known you had something to do with that.” Arthur leaned in, sucking a pink bruise into Merlin’s thigh. “Stay still, and maybe then I’ll let you come.”

“I _can’t_.” Merlin’s hips gave another helpless jerk as Arthur’s beard brushed against him, the words coming out in something like a sob. “Feels so— _good_ —”

Taking pity on him at last, Arthur took Merlin’s cock in his mouth again, flicking his tongue against the head in the way he knew would tip him over the edge. Merlin had always been easy to tease, right from the beginning—and easy to grow fond of, easy to let take over his life and his heart when no one else wanted the job. With his free hand, he pressed up between Merlin’s legs, pushing the tip of one finger inside him, and Merlin’s grip tightened painfully in his hair, his knees locking in an effort to remain upright. “Gods—yes— _please, Arthur—_ ”

He came without any further warning, spilling hot and bitter down Arthur’s throat, and Arthur swallowed it down. Merlin slumped on top of him, barely giving Arthur time to disengage before his legs gave way and the two of them tumbled together in a heap. It was fortunate that Arthur’s sheepskin rug happened to be there to break their fall, although Arthur could have sworn it had been halfway across the room a minute before. 

“I take it back,” Merlin mumbled, his words muffled where he lay draped over Arthur’s chest. “You look terrible. I’m getting the shears and cutting your hair just as soon as I figure out how to move.” 

“Mm, I don’t know.” Arthur pressed a kiss to the side of his head, shifting his hips as Merlin’s hand slid beneath his waistband. “I think I’ll keep it the way it is for a little while longer. I rather like the effect it has on you.” 

Merlin cracked one eye open. “Really?”

“Really,” Arthur affirmed, breath faltering for a moment when Merlin’s fingers closed around his cock. “As long as you agree to stay with me always, in case all of this— _admiration_ goes to my head.” 

In answer, Merlin kissed him, long and slow and decidedly filthy, and Arthur lay back and let him go to work, laughing as he stripped them both to the skin with a flick of his wrist. Let the bards say what they liked about the glories of battle and the wonders of travelling to foreign lands; Arthur had everything he needed right here, in this one room, with this one ridiculous man.


End file.
